Pauper's Gold

by Margaret Dickinson

  ‘Well, mebbe you sort of . . . sort of blocked it out. Didn’t want to remember it. You know?’

  She wasn’t sure she understood what he meant, but he continued, trying to explain. ‘Folks sometimes try to forget unhappy times in their lives.’

  ‘But I wasn’t unhappy. Not here.’

  ‘But when you left here,’ Jim persisted, ‘you went into the workhouse, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said slowly.

  ‘Well, that’s not a very happy experience, is it? Maybe you’ve tried to blot that out from your mind and the rest’s gone as well.’

  ‘There’s worse things that can happen,’ she murmured. There was suddenly a bleak, haunted look in her eyes. The last few weeks at the mill had been far more traumatic than life at the workhouse, grim though that had been. Luke’s death had been the worst thing – the very worst thing – that had ever happened to her. Guiltily, she realized that his death had affected her far more deeply than hearing that her own mother had died. She supposed she could accept the death of her mother – although not the fact that it had been kept from her – because it was the natural progression of life. What was hard to bear was the loss of her young sweetheart, the boy she’d hoped to marry one day.

  Jim glanced at her and saw the tears brimming in her eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘I’m sure there is.’

  Hannah took a deep breath and brushed her tears away with an impatient gesture. ‘But I see what you mean. And maybe you’re right.’ She lifted her face and smiled bravely. ‘It’s all coming back now and it’s thanks to you.’

  Hannah stood a moment, gazing down the street at the terrace of tall, three-storey houses. The longer, small-paned windows on the top storey were the telltale sign that they were weavers’ garret workshops. One of those very rooms had been where her own grandfather had worked, Hannah thought.

  Children played in the roadway and women stood in front of their houses, keeping an eye on the youngsters and gossiping with their neighbours. Suddenly, Hannah’s glance came to rest on a woman standing at the bottom of the three steep steps in front of her house and leaning against the railing, a small, round woman with her arms folded across her ample bosom. She was chatting to another woman standing on the pavement beside her.

  ‘Auntie Bessie,’ she whispered, then louder and louder until she was shouting and running down the street, her arms outstretched. ‘Auntie Bessie, Auntie Bessie!’

  She flung herself against the woman, who, taken by surprise, sat down suddenly on the bottom step.

  ‘’Ere, what d’you think you’re . . . ?’ the woman began indignantly as she grasped the railing and hauled herself up. But Hannah put her arms around the woman’s plump waist and hugged her hard, pressing her cheek against her.

  ‘What a’ you doing?’ The woman grasped Hannah by the shoulders and prised her away. She did not throw her off entirely, but held onto her, looking down into her upturned face. Behind them Jim had caught up with Hannah in time to hear the woman add, ‘Who are you?’

  He stood quietly, watching and waiting.

  Hannah opened her mouth but before she could speak, the thin, grey-haired woman who had been gossiping with Bessie suddenly cackled with laughter and prodded Hannah with a bony finger. ‘I know who you are, girl. I’d know you anywhere.’ She glanced at her friend. ‘Can’t you see it, Bess? You know who she is, don’t you?’

  Bessie stared at her friend. ‘No, I don’t know.’ She glanced between the thin woman and Hannah, seeming not to know quite which of them to ask. In the end, she asked them both. ‘Who is she, Flo?’ And turning again to the girl, ‘Who are you?’

  ‘It’s as plain as the nose on her face,’ Flo piped up, and cackled again with laughter at her own joke. ‘Though it’s a pretty little nose. Good job you didn’t get his nose as well as his blond hair and blue eyes.’

  ‘Flo,’ Bessie was becoming impatient now, ‘just cut the funning, will yer, and tell me who she is?’ She turned back to Hannah and, still holding her shoulders, gave her a little shake. ‘Or you tell me.’

  Hannah grinned up at her. ‘It’s me, Auntie Bessie. It’s Hannah. We used to live next door to you. I used to come into your house when me mam was at work.’

  ‘Hannah,’ Bessie said wonderingly. ‘Hannah! Aw, love—’ Suddenly, Hannah was swept into the woman’s arms and pressed against her softness. ‘Fancy me not knowing you. Aw, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ She held her at arm’s length again. ‘Let’s ’ave a proper look at you.’

  Hannah had no choice but to submit to her scrutiny. Beside them, Flo said softly, ‘See what I mean, Bess? You remember him, don’t you? She’s his kid, all right, even if Rebecca would never say. There’s no mistake now. Not now, there ain’t.’

  Hannah glanced at Flo, the question written on her face.

  Bessie frowned. ‘Shut up, Flo,’ she muttered. ‘You’ve said enough. More than enough, by the look of it.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, I’m sure,’ Flo said huffily. Then she bent towards Hannah. ‘You remember me, ducky, don’t yer? I’m yer Antie Flo.’

  Hannah stared into the thin face, the grey eyes, the gaunt cheeks, the beak-like nose and the thin-lipped mouth. Oh, she remembered her all right. She remembered Florence Harris. How she’d called after Hannah and her mother, calling them names as they walked down the street. ‘No better than you ought to be, Rebecca Francis. And that girl of yours’ll be the same. It’s in the breed. Her father’s a good-for-nothing womanizer and you’re nothing better than a whore!’

  Oh yes, Hannah remembered her now, but instead, she smiled sweetly into Flo’s face and said, ‘No, sorry. I don’t. I only remember Auntie Bessie. She was always so kind to us.’

  Flo straightened up and with a disgruntled ‘Huh!’ turned away. She began to walk back to her own house, next door, but with a parting shot, she pointed at the young constable and said, ‘What’s he doing here, then? In trouble already, is she? It’ll be no more than you could expect. You want to be careful of her, Bess. Bringing trouble to your door. That’s what she’ll do.’

  But Bessie was chuckling softly. ‘That’s put ’er nose out of joint. You come along in and tell me what’s been happening to you. But first,’ she glanced up at Jim. ‘What is this bobby doing here? Are you in bother?’

  ‘No, no, Auntie Bessie. He’s been helping me find you. Well, helping me find where I used to live. I . . . I couldn’t remember . . .’ Her voice faltered and faded.

  ‘Couldn’t remember?’ Bessie seemed shocked.

  Jim stepped forward and, clearing his throat, he spoke for the first time. ‘I think she’s blotted a lot out of her mind. She – well, she’ll no doubt tell you herself – but she’s not had it easy . . .’ Now, he too stopped, unsure what to say next.

  ‘Ah,’ Bessie said and nodded, catching on quickly. ‘Well, let’s go inside and we’ll all ’ave a nice cup of tea and a bit of a chat, eh?’ She grinned at the constable, her merry eyes almost lost in her round, red cheeks. ‘You too, young feller. I ain’t never ’ad no cause to be frightened of the bobbies and I ain’t goin’ to start now.’

  Jim smiled back. ‘Ta all the same, missis, but I’d best be getting back on me proper beat, else it’ll be me in the trouble.’ He nodded towards Hannah. ‘But I’ll keep in touch. I’d like to know how she goes on.’

  Bessie chuckled inwardly. I bet you would, she thought, as she saw the way the young man’s eyes rested on Hannah’s pretty face. Oh, I bet you would. Aloud, she said, ‘Well, lad, like I say, you’re welcome in my house any time you like. In or out of your uniform.’

  Hannah turned to him. ‘Thank you so much for all your help. You . . . you’ve been wonderful. And please – thank Mr Robinson for me too, won’t you?’

  ‘I will, miss. And . . . and good luck,’ he added as he put on his hat and turned away, raising his hand in farewell as he strode away up the street. ‘By the way, don’t forget to collect your bundle of things from the station, will yer?’

  ‘I wo
n’t. And thank you.’

  ‘Now, love,’ Bessie said, putting her arm around Hannah’s shoulders. ‘Come along in. It’s high time you and me did some catching up.’

  Twenty-Six

  Two hours later they were still sitting either side of Bessie Morgan’s table, tea grown cold before them, exchanging their stories of the years since they’d last seen each other. Hannah had poured it all out – every bit of it – and she, in turn, had listened to Bessie’s tale.

  ‘Your gran was always good to me, love, ’specially when I lost one of me little ’uns with the scarlet fever.’

  ‘I remember that,’ Hannah said gently. ‘I wasn’t allowed to play with Peggy for weeks.’ She leaned forward. ‘Is . . . is Peggy all right? I mean . . .’ She faltered. It was difficult asking about Bessie’s large family. Perhaps there had been more tragedies. There had. Bessie wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron. ‘She’s all right.’ Bessie’s generous mouth was suddenly tight. ‘Far as I know, that is.’

  ‘Far as you know . . .’ Hannah began and then stopped. But she had gone too far to pull back now. ‘What . . . what do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t see her. I don’t even know where she’s living. Not for sure.’

  Hannah waited. The questions were tumbling around in her mind, but she held them in check, waiting for Bessie to continue in her own time. ‘Peggy was always a wild one,’ Bessie was saying, and Hannah was remembering the bright, fair-haired tomboy she had played with. ‘She met this lad when she was fifteen. I didn’t like him. He was an idle beggar. Into all sorts, he was. Him and all his family and not always on the right side of the law. But she wouldn’t listen to me. It was about – about the time I lost my Bill.’

  Hannah gasped. She hadn’t thought to ask about Bessie’s quiet, unassuming husband, Bill.

  ‘Oh no, not Uncle Bill.’

  Bessie nodded and her eyes filled with tears again. ‘He got injured at work in ’fifty three and died just before Christmas.’

  ‘That was just before they sent me to the mill,’ Hannah murmured, but Bessie was lost in the telling of her own tale now.

  ‘What I’d have given to have your gran and your mam still living next door,’ she went on, ‘I can’t tell you. And that was when madam,’ Hannah guessed she was referring to her wayward daughter, Peggy, ‘decided to up sticks and leave. Packed ’er bags, she did, and off she went with ’im. Went to live with his parents in Davies Street. Well, I say parents. His dad’s in gaol, by all accounts.’

  Hannah touched the woman’s hand. ‘Oh, Auntie Bessie, I’m so sorry to hear all this. You’ve had it worse than me.’

  ‘No, love, no. Things like that shouldn’t happen to a young girl. When you get older – to my age – well, you expect to ’ave to take a few knocks.’ She smiled through her tears. ‘Worst of it is, though, they’ve all left home now. The lads are working away. Ben is in Manchester and Micky went to London. Doing very well, he is. Got a job in an office, so he says. He writes regular, but he can’t get home much. Neither can Ben, even though he’s only in Manchester, it might as well be a million miles away.

  ‘What about the others?’ Hannah asked tentatively, fearing more bad news.

  ‘Young Billy’s at sea. Joined the navy, ’ee did, and Sarah’s married.’ Bessie was smiling now. ‘Got a babby. Bonny little girl. Called her Elizabeth after me. Beth for short. But they live in Liverpool. Her husband works on the docks, so I don’t see a lot of them either.’ Her face fell again. ‘It’s hard, you know, Hannah, when you’ve had a house full of family and then, all of a sudden, you turn round and there’s no one left but you.’ Bessie forced a smile as she added, ‘But I should count my blessings. The landlord let me stay in me home, even though I don’t work in the weaving trade any more. Not now poor Bill’s gone. There’s a nice feller rents the garret.’ She jerked her thumb upwards, indicating the attic rooms of her house. ‘But he’s a quiet sort. Comes and goes and I never see him.’ She pulled a face. ‘No company there, if you know what I mean.’

  Hannah could hear the loneliness in Bessie’s voice. She held Bessie’s hand and leaned forward. ‘Well, I’m hoping to find a job in one of the silk mills and stay in Macclesfield.’ She pulled a wry face. ‘As long as Edmund Critchlow doesn’t catch up with me and have me dragged back to serve out my term. Anyway,’ she went on briskly and with more hope in her tone than she was feeling inside. ‘I’ll come and see you often. I promise.’

  Bessie smiled. ‘Where are you living?’

  ‘Nowhere yet. That’s me next job. Find lodgings.’

  Bessie’s face lit up. ‘Then you’ve found ’em, love. You can stay here and I won’t take no for an answer.’

  Now it was Hannah’s eyes that filled with tears. ‘Oh, Auntie Bessie, I’d love to,’ she cried and, hugging her, Hannah felt as if she had come home.

  With her husband and one of her boys dead and the rest of her family gone, Bessie’s only source of income was to take in washing. But those who lived nearby were ashard up as she was and the work was spasmodic.

  ‘We’re doing each other a favour,’ she assured Hannah. ‘If you get a job and pay me a bit of board each week, you’ll be saving me from the workhouse.’

  Hannah’s eyes widened in disbelief, but Bessie nodded, ‘You will, I tell you, you will. The lads send me money now and again, but it’s not fair to expect it.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘You don’t see the chick scratching for the old hen, do you?’

  Hannah put her arms around her and murmured, ‘I’ll scratch for you, Auntie Bessie, just like I’d’ve done for me mam, if only . . . if only . . .’

  Bessie hugged her close. ‘Aye, love, I know. I know.’

  Hannah settled in quickly with Bessie Morgan. For the first few weeks they decided she should not go in search of work.

  ‘You keep your head down, just for a week or two. There’ll be time enough for you to look for a job after Christmas. In the meantime, you can help me with the washing and ironing. I reckon everyone’s decided to have their sheets and blankets washed for Christmas. I’ve even got three pairs of curtains, would you believe? I don’t know where all the work’s coming from all of a sudden. I really need your help, Hannah. You couldn’t have turned up at a better time.’

  ‘What about Mrs Harris? You . . . you don’t think she’ll report me to Mr Goodbody, do you?’

  ‘Not if she knows what’s good for her,’ Bessie said grimly. ‘Don’t you fret, love. I’ll have a word with her. Make sure she keeps that runaway mouth of hers tight shut, else she’ll have me to reckon with.’

  Hannah smiled, suddenly feeling a lot safer. She wasn’t sure whether Bessie was telling the truth about needing her help, but she worked hard alongside the older woman over the copper and the tub in the wash house in the back yard. At night, when Bessie put her swollen legs up, Hannah tackled all the ironing. The next day, she tramped the streets to return the fresh laundry and collect more work.

  It was on a cold January morning, when she walked to the very end of Bridge Road, turned left into Chestergate and continued out onto the Prestbury Road, that she saw the workhouse. She stood before the main entrance, looking up at the imposing stone building, at the plaque above the door bearing the date that building began – 1843 – and up again to the clock tower and the weather vane on the very top. Then her glance took in the numerous windows and the tall chimneys. Hannah shuddered. She remembered this place all too well.

  She wondered if the Goodbodys were still there and asked herself if she dared to knock on the door and ask for the truth about her mother. Hannah bit her lip and turned away, her eyes filling with tears. Though she longed to find out about her mother, it was too big a risk.

  *

  ‘What’s the matter, love?’ Bessie asked. Hannah had hardly said a word since her return from taking and fetching the laundry and now she was picking at her supper with little or no appetite. ‘Are you poorly?’

  Tears spilled down Hannah’s face.

 
‘Aw, love, what is it?’ Bessie was round the table in a trice and enfolding the girl in her loving embrace.

  ‘I . . . I saw the workhouse today and . . . and it brought all the memories about Mam back. I know they said she was dead, but was it true? Perhaps it was another lie.’ She lifted her tear-streaked face. ‘Auntie Bessie, what if she’s still in there?’

  ‘Well, we’ll go and ask, but don’t get your hopes up, love, will you? Because, to be honest, if your mam was still alive I reckon she’d’ve got in touch with you somehow. I can’t believe she’d let nearly four years go by without a word.’

  ‘But they stopped my letters.’

  ‘Aye, I know. You told me,’ Bessie said grimly.

  ‘You see,’ Hannah said, ‘I want to find out the truth but I daren’t go to the workhouse in case Mr Goodbody’s still there. He’d have me sent back to the mill. I know he would.’

  Bessie beamed suddenly. ‘Then leave it with me, love. I’ve nothing to fear of that place – only of having to go in it to stay. But not now. Not now you’re here. So I’ll find out about your mam for you.’

  ‘But . . . but what will you say? Won’t he suspect I’m with you? He might already have heard from Mr Edmund that I’ve run away.’

  Bessie frowned thoughtfully. ‘Aye, well, I won’t mention you . . .’ she began, but then a gleam came into her eyes. ‘Tell you what – it might be better if I did mention you.’

  Fear crossed Hannah’s face. ‘Oh, Auntie Bessie, please don’t—’

  ‘No, no, love, listen a minute. If I go to Goodbody and ask where your mam and you are, then he won’t suspect I’ve seen you, will he? I’ll just say I’m trying to find out about my old friends.’ Her face was suddenly sad. ‘It broke my heart the day you left to go into that place, Hannah, but there was nothing we could do. We’d’ve helped you if we could’ve done. We ’adn’t the room to take you in here.’